Dying To Death
by Zettel
Summary: AU novella. Herded by circumstance, Chuck falls on hard times and into a life of petty crime. But his new job does not go according to his plan. Charah.
1. Casing the Joint

**A/N **And, no, despite appearances, I am not back.

This is a blast from the past-of a sort. I wrote this a few months ago on an international flight, just to stave off boredom. I wrote it out longhand in a notebook. I could never quite make up my mind about posting it, so I left it penciled on pages. The other day, I re-read it and liked it better than I remembered. So, I typed it up and am now posting it. I am posting the entire story at once; it is complete.

An AU novella. Another of my genre-bending stories. Call this _Darkling Fluff_.

I use the basic outline of a movie called _Breaking and Exiting. _I fill in the outline mostly in my own way. The story takes place in the present day_._

Thanks to David Carner, Chesterton and Let'sGoRed.

Don't own _Chuck_ or _Breaking and Exiting._

* * *

**Dying to Death**

CHAPTER ONE

_Casing The Joint_

* * *

Burglary was no livelihood. Chuck was going to jail or to Hell-no two ways around it. Bars or flames. Maybe both.

Chuck Bartowski looked through the binoculars again, memorizing the gate code as the elegant, middle-aged woman punched it in.

"Did you get it, Chuck?" Morgan Grimes asked. Chuck could feel Morgan moving, to try to see past him.

"Yeah, yeah, Morg. Got it."

The woman got in her car and backed out of the driveway, her gate closing behind her as she pulled away. After putting on a baseball cap and yanking it down low, Morgan started to open the passenger door on the small, beat-up Dodge pickup.

"Wait," Chuck ordered, putting his hand on Morgan's arm. "She'll be back. She had her suitcase. Ten to one says she's back in a sec. She'll have forgotten something."

Chuck had hardly finished speaking than the woman's car came around the block. The gate opened remotely. She parked and walked quickly back to her door. She opened it and went inside.

Less than a minute later, she emerged, wrapping the cord of a phone charger around her finger. Finished, she used her free hand to enter the code once more, then she backed out of the driveway again and drove away.

"Wow, you really do a good job casing these places, Chuck," Morgan commented, shaking his head. "I guess you know all about her?"

Chuck nodded while gazing in the rearview mirror, making sure there was no second return trip from the woman. "Yeah, I checked her out. Lots of high-end electronics, everything insured. Super wealthy. She'll get everything replaced." Chuck offered this as if it made what they were about to do okay. Of course, it didn't. Morgan didn't think it did, but it was the game they played, a way of making themselves feel better. It did, a little, but not because it erased the guilt, but it did remind them that it was their shared burden.

Chuck got out and he moved quickly, although without running, to the gate. He keyed in the number the woman had used. Morgan had gone around the front of the truck, and, when the gate opened, he backed the truck into the driveway. Chuck hit the key to close the gate, wiped the keys with a soft cloth, then slipped inside the gate before it closed all the way.

Morgan was out of the truck, slipping his gloves on. Chuck had gotten his skeleton key set out of his old Buy More jacket pocket. As Morgan finished with his gloves, Chuck deftly picked the lock.

They were inside. With practiced economy and silence, Morgan moved immediately to the electronics in the family room. Chuck began to search the rest of the house, looking for laptops or other items he could sell to his fence, Harry Tang.

Chuck knew he could steal online, steal not just as a petty thief, stealing enough to eat and pay rent, but steal on a massive scale, true white-collar theft, enriching himself. But Chuck was trying to do things in a Robin Hood-ish way, stealing from the rich to give to the poor-himself, Morgan-but not enough to remotely impoverish his victims or remotely to enrich himself. He hated himself for doing it, but after the Buy More closed, his other avenues of employment seemed to dry up. No seemed to want to hire a longtime Nerd Herder and Stanford dropout...er, _expellee_.

Chuck's sister, Ellie, and her husband, Devon Woodcomb, had moved to Chicago to take up jobs at a fine hospital there (she was a neurologist, he a cardiologist). Chuck and Morgan had decided to rent the apartment Ellie and Devon left, and that worked okay for a while-until the Buy More went under. Eventually, they got behind on the rent; eventually, they got evicted. They were now living in a closet, basically, and having a hard time paying the rent there. Ellie and Devon would have bailed him out, he knew, but they had supported him for so long, he was loath to ask for anything more. It would kill Ellie to know what he was doing, but it would kill Chuck to ask for help.

Stalemate.

So the thieving continued. Over time, he and Morgan had become a practiced team, good at it. Careful in choice of targets, quick in, quick out. Well, quicker in than out, since Chuck made it a habit to find something in each house that needed cleaning and to clean it before he left. He did spot dusting, furniture polishing, loaded or unloaded the dishwasher-something to try to make things better, at least for his own conscience. Morgan, a slob at home and on the job, found this a nerve-wracking oddity and chafed against it, but he rarely said anything .

Chuck carried a new Apple laptop downstairs and took it out and stowed it in the back of the truck. He went back in, stepping aside at the doorway to allow Morgan to make his way through it with a pair of very fine stereo speakers. (Chuck knew ahead of time that the woman was an audiophile.) Chuck went in and cleaned the kitchen; it had been left in slight disarray after breakfast.

Morgan finished and stood, hands in his pockets, visibly anxious to go, watching as Chuck patiently swept together a modest pile dirt from the floor into the dustpan and dumped the dirt into the trash. Chuck dusted off his gloved hands. "Finished!"

Morgan sighed quietly and turned on his heels, marching quickly out the door. Since he had adjusted the seat, Morgan got in the driver's side and Chuck circled around. They pulled out of the house. Chuck knew the fake plates he used to cover the real ones (magnetised) would prevent anyone from being able to give a license number even if they were seen. And the truck, greyish brown, was about as nondescript as a small pickup could be. The house was on the other side of the city, so they would not be driving around casually anywhere near it. So far, they had never even come close to being caught. Chuck hoped the careful planning would keep things that way.

ooOoo

Morgan gave Chuck a funny look as the pulled onto the expressway.

"What?"

Something like fear, or irresolution, or both, crawled across Morgan's bearded face. "I...uh...I don't want to do this anymore, Chuck. I'd rather be night cashier at the Gas and Sip. In fact, I got an offer…"

"From the Gas and Sip?"

"Um...yeah...I know a person who manages there. Thinks I could eventually climb the ladder, be Ass Man at the Gas and Sip."

Chuck felt a constriction in his chest. It took him a minute to reply. "'Ass Man' was always a bad abbreviation at the Buy More. It's even worse at the Gas and Sip."

Morgan stared out the front window for a little while, then grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, yeah, I guess so. But still, Chuck, I just can't go on doing this. We will eventually get caught, go to jail. Do you know what would happen to someone as cute as me in jail? The showers." Morgan shuddered.

Chuck turned and gazed out the passenger window. In his imagination, the little truck was the Millenium Falcon, Morgan was Chewie and Chuck was Han.

The Falcon needed her pilot. Han needed Chewie.

There was no Leia in the offing.

Chuck wasn't sure he could do this job alone.

ooOoo

Morgan had left shortly after they arrived back at their apartment. He helped unload the stolen items, then he left to meet his Gas and Sip buddy. Chuck texted Harry Tang, using their usual code to let Tang know that goods were now available. Given the quality of the items stolen, Chuck thought he could probably go a while, a week or two, before he would need to plan and execute a new job. But if he did that, he knew he increased the chances that Morgan really would take the Gas and Sip job. Chuck's best chance of keeping his little buddy with him was to move onto another job quickly.

He had a place in mind. Big, two-story house. In-ground pool and hot tub. Easy security-for Chuck. The guy who owned it (Chuck had never seen him, he seemed to constantly travel for work) had oodles of pricey, still state of the art electronics, and likely other things, maybe watches or jewelry. A woman lived there too: he had seen her once, a tall blond. The man's name was Smith. Chuck wasn't sure if the woman was wife or girlfriend. But no matter. The house was normally empty.

A friend of Chuck's who worked at Audio Heaven had given Chuck a heads-up about Smith a few weeks ago (for the friend's usual 'finder's fee') and supplied the address. Some hacking online had revealed how much of a golden-egg-laying goose Smith really was. If Chuck could get Morgan to help, the score would be big enough that Morgan would have no need of Gas and Sip's damp oily money; he and Chuck could live off Smith's wealth for months.

Chuck got in the truck and drove the distance to Smith's house. Everything still looked as it had when he first drove past. Empty. Perfect. Chuck had a good feeling about the place.

Chuck pulled into a parking lot a couple of miles away and texted Morgan, telling him about the planned job tomorrow. Chuck sat for a moment, looking at his phone, waiting for a response. Morgan's phone was basically grafted to his body; he always responded quickly. But no response came. Chuck tapped his phone against the steering wheel, surprised and disappointed.

Morgan couldn't be serious, could he?

After idling a little longer, Chuck pulled out into traffic and headed back to the apartment. Tang would be there soon, and there'd be some hard bargaining to be done.

ooOoo

There was a knock on the door. Tang had left earlier, just as it got dark. Chuck had two rolls of bills in his pocket, his half and Morgan's. Morgan would not have knocked, so Chuck was unsure who might be at the door. He went and lifted one corner of the curtain on the small front window. No police cars outside. He looked toward the small stoop. A small, brunette woman was standing there, holding a paper bag.

"C'mon, Chuck. Don't leave me out here holding the bag!" _Bang_. _Bang_. More knocking.

_Lou_. Chuck was unsure whether to be happy to see her or annoyed. She had been chasing him around for a few weeks, maybe even a few months now, but Chuck had not consented to be caught, despite the fact that he liked her and found her attractive. And despite the fact that he was overpoweringly lonely. He had not had a girlfriend in years, not since Jill Roberts at Stanford. He had dated, mostly women Ellie had set him up with, but none of them ever turned into a third date. He fizzled on them or them on him before the second date sometimes or otherwise before the third.

He had dated a few women he met on his own, and he had slept with a couple of them, but that had been before the Buy More went under, and before Chuck started his life of crime. He just couldn't allow himself to fall for anyone while he was making his living (such as it was) as a burglar. It had been a long time since he had been close to a woman and he knew that Lou wanted him that way. He wanted her that way too, but not enough to change his way of life, and not enough to draw her into his way of life. So he had been trying artfully to dodge being alone with her, seeing her only at her sandwich shop a couple of times a week.

He realized that Morgan must have done what Chuck had forbidden him to do: ordered sandwiches from Lou's for delivery. Otherwise, it was unclear how she could have gotten Chuck's address. She undoubtedly knew his truck, since he often drove it to her shop.

"Morgan? Are you in there? Somebody open the door. I see the light on. I saw the curtain move!"

Chuck cursed himself. He had no choice. He did not need to draw attention. He was very careful to keep a low profile in the rundown apartment complex. He unlocked the door and opened it.

Lou's pretty face went from mild annoyance to sunlit in a second. "Hey, Chuck. I know I shouldn't have...shown up unannounced...but I did bring a gift. A new sandwich I am trying out. Can I come in and give you some?"

She and Chuck both blushed a bit at her words, but he stepped aside so that she could enter. She stepped past him, careful to brush against him as she did so. She did not smell like sandwiches. She smelled...good...flowery and exotic and warm. Chuck could feel the odor all through his body, not just smell it. He tried not to think about it or about Lou's warm soft skin. So much of that skin was on display given the gauzy sundress she was wearing. Her tan skin glowed and looked impossibly soft.

Chuck took hold of himself, clenched his fists. He couldn't let the fact that it had been so long or that Lou was so beautiful to carry him into a mistake. Or add to the mistakes he was already making. Lou was a great girl, smart, funny, feisty. Almost everything Chuck could want. But he also knew there was something...missing. Even if he had been living on the up-and-up, he would not have allowed himself to fall into anything serious with Lou.

The one good thing the whole mess with Jill had done was convince Chuck that loneliness was not an appropriate cornerstone on which to build a romance. He liked Lou, but he was not sure that the liking went beyond friendship. True, he _wanted_ her, but he wasn't sure he wanted _her. _Maybe he did. But even if he did, he could not let himself have her, draw her into the compromises with her conscience that he had made with his own conscience. Of course, if she knew, she might not want him anymore, but then she would know-and what would she do with the knowledge. She would either turn him in (bad for Chuck) or she would keep his secret (bad for Lou). No, the best thing was to keep his hands away from her bare shoulders or her bare legs, even if she was clearly offering them, offering herself to him.

Lou crossed the short distance to Chuck's small, two-person table, and she put the bag down on it. Chuck shut the door but stayed where he was. She looked back at him over her shoulder, smiling a big, inviting smile. She turned back and opened the bag, pulling a wrapped sandwich from it. She put it on the table, then retrieved a couple of napkins and a plastic knife and fork. She unfolded one of the napkins, spreading it on the table, then she opened the sandwich. It had been cut into equal halves. She put one half on the napkin, the other half on the paper the sandwich had been wrapped in. Then she sat down at the table and gestured for Chuck to join her. As he crossed to the table, she kicked her sandals off, baring her feet. Chuck refused to allow his glance to linger on her feet and ankles and calves and knees and…

He sat down, putting the table between his eyes and her feet and legs. She looked at him coyly, apparently aware of what he had been doing and what he had done in response to it. She pushed his half of the sandwich closer to him. He was glad the scent of it was masking Lou's scent. Her bare feet combined with the dress and the perfume was far too heady for Chuck to be sure he could resist it so near to her.

Chuck made himself look down at the sandwich, then he took a deep breath. "Wow, Lou, it smells good. What sandwich is it?"

She smiled slowly, her tongue wetting her lips before she spoke. "It's the Chuckster. Tons of meat and a lot of special sauce." She nailed his gaze with her own; he could not look away, only blush right in front of her, much to her obvious enjoyment. "I built it while thinking about you, obviously."

One of the spaghetti straps of her dress had fallen off her shoulder. She reached to put it back in place, up, then stopped, mid-motion. She drew her hand across herself and pushed the opposite strap down to match. "So, I take it Morgan is...out?"

"Yeah...Um. Yes. Yes, he may be back soon. I don't know his schedule, really." Chuck looked toward the front door, willing Morgan to arrive, but it stayed shut, unmolested.

As he turned back, he suddenly found himself with an armful of warm girl, her heady scent once again overwhelming him. He could feel her pressing herself against him, chest and bottom, and could feel his own response, breathing and...otherwise. Lou's lips were on his, full, soft and demanding. Her taste was like her scent, only even more overwhelming. Chuck started to kiss her back.

But then he stopped. He pulled back from her. "Lou, you know...I want to...but I can't."

She gave him a heated look. "Why, Chuck? We're adults. I consent. I want this. I've wanted it for a while." She squirmed in his lap. "I am...pretty sure you want it too. What's the problem? No strings."

Chuck pulled himself back from her a bit more. "That's the problem. I want...strings. I want...I want something I can't give you right now, Lou."

She stared into his eyes, blinking slowly. "Is there someone else?"

"No, Lou, really, no. I guess maybe that makes this better and worse. I like you, Lou, a lot. But I can't make any commitment to anyone right now. My life...it's a mess."

Lou pointed a finger and put it against his chest. "Chuck, I want this. I want you. Ok, so you can't make a commitment right now. I can live with that. We can just let it be whatever it is. Maybe, over time, it will become something...more. But if not, no harm, no foul. I'm a big girl. My...eyes are open."

"I get it, Lou. And I am _so_ deeply flattered. I would be...I am incredibly lucky that you want me, want this...but…"

"No 'buts', Chuck. I know a good guy when I meet one. And you are definitely a good guy. What other guy would be having this conversation with me right now, knowing that I would rather you be between my legs than be seated on yours?"

Chuck blew out a long, slow breath. "Lou, please, don't say things like that. This is hard enough already…"

"I'd say so," Lou quipped, adding another firmer squirm in his lap,

"There are just things you don't understand, things about me, what I've done...am doing...things that make any relationship...problematic."

Lou stared into his eyes again, her gaze a pointed question. Then slowly, she took her arms from around his neck and stood. She pulled each of the spaghetti straps back into place, then she moved her sandals from under the table with one foot. She slid each back on, continuing to stare at Chuck.

"Is that 'No' your final answer?"

Chuck nodded, his shoulders slumping. "Yes, for now, anyway, Lou. Maybe someday…"

"I may not be available _someday_, Chuck. You know that, right? It's not a threat or anything, it's just the way things are."

Chuck nodded. "I understand. And, you know, Lou, that I want...that I…" He fished for an ending to that sentence that would be graceful, non-insulting, but couldn't find one.

Lou grinned at his consternation. "As I said, I know a good guy when I meet one. Enjoy the sandwich, Chuck. Think of me. Just be careful not to get that special sauce all over the place." She gave him another heated look and waited for one beat...then two...then three.

Then she turned to the door. "Ok, Bartowski. I guess you will _Chuckster_ alone tonight." She walked to the door and let herself out before Chuck could stand. A kindness on Lou's part, since standing would have been...embarrassing.

ooOoo

Chuck sat and played video games for a few hours after he ate half the Chuckster. He put the other half in the fridge for Morgan.

Morgan did not show. Finally, Chuck was having a hard time staying awake, keeping his eyes open. He got up, wrote Morgan a note, alerting him to the half sandwich and putting one of the rolls of bills on the note.

Chuck went into his room. He undressed, looking at the _Tron _poster on his wall, a gift long ago from his father. His parents were both gone, presumably dead, although he did not know that for an absolute certainty. But he had not heard or seen from either one in many, many years, not since he was a boy. He wondered how his life might have been different if they had been in it, his life and Ellie's.

He got into bed and stared up at the ceiling. He was growing increasingly sure that Morgan had meant it when he said he was quitting. But Chuck had stopped envisioning any future except one in which he and Morgan just continued as they had been doing. Chuck couldn't seem to summon up the willpower to change, to put it all behind him and find some legitimate, some legal work. He was trapped, demoralized and unhappy and...angry. He knew he was not Robin Hood. He knew he was not much of anything. There had been a time when people thought he was special, that he had unlimited potential. No one thought that now. No one, except Ellie and Devon and Morgan, thought about him at all. But Ellie and Devon did not know the truth. And Morgan was about to quit him.

For a moment, he longed for Lou to be in his bed. He even picked up his phone from the nightstand and thought about calling her. To do so would be to give up the one good thing he'd managed to do all day, other than clean the kitchen at the house he had robbed. He didn't want to rob himself of his last reason for self-respect.

Cleaning the kitchen. Like that made up for stealing from the woman.

He chuckled bitterly. He had heard a rumor that the police had a nickname for him. "Mr. Clean." Well, Mr. Clean's life, despite his nickname, was a mess, damned shitty.

ooOoo

The next morning, as he headed to the shower, Chuck stopped at Morgan's bedroom door and knocked. No one answered. He heard no voice from inside. Chuck knocked again to no result. He opened the door. Morgan's bed was made. There was no sign that he had ever been back.

Chuck shrugged to himself and then took a shower. When he got out, there was still no sign of Morgan. Chuck dressed. When he got into the kitchen, the note and the money were still on the table-and, strongest proof of all, the half sandwich was still in the fridge.

Chuck tore up the note and threw it away. He made coffee and drank it while eating the other half of the Chuckster. He had to give it to Lou. She had a gifted hand for special sauce. The sandwich was good, even after a night among moldy leftovers and half-consumed cans of grape soda.

Chuck wasted some time after eating checking news on his phone. He had a brief email from Ellie, just saying hello and asking how he was doing. He emailed her a quick response. Then he got out a pen and paper and began to sketch Smith's house from memory. He got on Google Maps and looked at it from above, noting the position of the fence and the pool and hot tube. It looked like there was also a sizable firepit and barbeque in the back yard.

Chuck thought for a while about the house and its situation, then he got online and, after some deft but fairly simple hacking, found architect's plans for the house, submitted before it had been built. He drew in what he could, then superimposed the plans on top of the drawing. He had a good sense of the layout of both floors.

He walked out to the truck and checked the glove compartment-where he kept his and Morgan's gloves, oddly enough, along with various tools that might be needed but that also could easily be passed off as used for maintaining the truck.

Back inside, Chuck got his computer and his lockpicking tools. He put the latter in his pocket, the former in a shoulder bag. He had been prepping slowly, convinced that Morgan would show or would call. Neither had happened. Chuck sent Morgan a text, telling him that they had work that morning, and urging him to call Chuck. They never texted specifics about jobs.

Chuck locked the door, put on the fake, magnetic plates, and got in the truck. He checked the mirrors to see if Morgan was approaching. He wasn't. Chuck shook his head and drove away. He would do it without Morgan. Show him that he was not essential.

Han could fly solo. Forget Chewy.

ooOoo

The house was empty. Chuck was sure of that. But he was still sitting outside it, just up the block a bit. He was still hoping to hear from Morgan, although he told himself he was just making sure no one was home. He wasn't; he was waiting to hear from Morgan. He had sent a couple of more texts, but still, he got no answer.

He looked at his watch. It was 12:30 pm. He had been sitting in the truck longer than he normally would, long enough to begin to draw attention. He needed to get started if he was going to do it. He felt a wave of sadness crash over him. Morgan had always helped in the past, and that had made it seem less...serious, more game-like. But Morgan was not there. Robin Hood, such as he was, had lost his Merry Man.

Chuck punched himself in the leg, hard. Time to grow up. Accept who he was and what he was. Time to stop talking and thinking about Star Wars or the Sherwood Forrest, and to face burglary in LA.

He started the truck and pulled up to the security keypad near the end of the short driveway. He punched in the number he had gotten when he saw the blonde arrive the one time she had. The gate opened and Chuck pulled the truck inside. There was not much room between the gate and the door to the garage, but it was adequate to park the truck.

Chuck got out and started toward the front door. He noticed a neighbor out walking a dog, so he turned and went along the side of the house, jumping up and climbing over the wooden gate that led into the backyard.

He got out his lockpicking tools and approached the backdoor, after giving an appreciative glance at the hot tub and pool.

He got to the backdoor and found it...open. Chuck stood there, staring first at the door, second through the crack the door was open (and into the large living room) and finally back at the door again. It seemed like unprecedented good luck-or like a trap. He shrugged to himself and put the tools back into his pocket. He pushed gently on the door and it swung open soundlessly. The living room was open to him and the kitchen was just beyond it. The floor plan was open, so there was only an island, running parallel to the long kitchen counter, separating the living room from the kitchen. On one end of the kitchen was an alcove with a small table surrounded by four chairs. There was a huge black leather sectional sofa occupying a large portion of the living room, and a massive big screen television anchored to the wall opposite the sectional. There were a couple of matching leather armchairs. A door led to the washroom and into the garage.

Chuck stood still for a moment, orienting himself in his memory of the floor plans. The stairs were off to the right, leading up to a small bedroom. To the left of that was the master bedroom, with a very large bathroom and a massive walk-in closet. There was a third bedroom even further to the left, but the plans made Chuck suspect that the room was likely a home office. Chuck looked at the television-very new, expensive. The surround sound system was top of the line.

The stereo-the thing he had mostly been interested in stealing-was not in view, but he expected it to be in the first-floor front room, probably some sort of family room. He decided to wait to look at it.

The open door had him a bit spooked. He stood for a time, listening. But he heard no sounds of human habitation in the house, no footfall or movement of any kind. He decided to check upstairs first: it would be easier for someone to be up there and for him not to know it than for someone to be in the family room and him not to know it.

He climbed the stairs quickly, silently, two at a time, his long legs making short work of the distance. He stood silent at the top. Still, he heard nothing. He opened the door to the first small bedroom. It was blandly decorated-now that he thought about it, so was the rest of the house, what he had seen, anyway. There were no family or personal photos in view on any walls downstairs or standing on any flat surface. Art, or rather, purchased prints of questionable taste, 'adorned' the walls, and there were some expensive-looking crystalline knickknacks here and there. The place seemed more like a house used to advertise a homebuilder's work than a house anyone actually lived in. The small bedroom was empty, the bed neatly made. No sign of anyone having been there, perhaps in a long time.

He went to the left, to the door of the master bedroom and opened it. It too was bland. The kingsize bed, massive and domineering, filled a lot of the room. The room was empty. Chuck entered it and walked toward the door to the bathroom. He opened it. The bathroom was as large as the master bedroom itself. The tub, nearby, was obscured from view, wrapped around by a dark shower curtain. A glass-enclosed shower was on the far end of the bathroom Everything was gleaming and chrome and black and white.

As he looked around, Chuck noticed that the bathroom counter, black marble, was untidy. There were various items strewn around it, and toothpaste smeared across part of the surface. Pill bottles, open, some pills spilled out, completed the mess. Chuck decided that this would be the part of the house he cleaned. He walked to the counter and opened one of the doors beneath it. He found a bottle of spray cleaner and a roll of paper towels. Placing the paper towels on the countertop, he began to pick up the pills, trying his best to figure out which ones belonged to which bottles. He had put them back together when he looked at himself in the mirror-and saw the shower curtain move. He jumped.

He thought to run. But then he stopped, turned. The movement had not continued. He stood there for a moment, now facing the shower curtain. No more movement disturbed it.

"Hey, hey," Chuck said softly, "is someone there?" He felt silly. He was now almost sure his imagination had played a trick on him. Or, the suspicion was sudden, it was Morgan. It would be like him to pull a stunt like this. Smiling despite his annoyance, Chuck reached out and pulled the shower curtain open.

Morgan was not in the shower. Instead, the most beautiful woman Chuck had ever seen was on her back in the tub. She had on only a black, lacy bra and matching panties; she was more than half-covered in water. Her eyes were closed.

On the side of the tub was a glass of red wine and a silver pistol.

Chuck stood, frozen, the curtain clutched in one hand, the bottle of spray cleaner in the other. After a moment, or a day, or a millennium, the woman cracked opened one eye, bluer than blue, and noticed him.

She frowned deeply. "Go away and leave me the hell...alone," she slurred.

The blue eye closed-the woman passed out-and she slid slowly beneath the water.


	2. Bathing Beauty?

AU novella. Herded by circumstance, Chuck falls on hard times and into a life of crime. But his new job does not go according to his plan.

* * *

**Dying to Death**

CHAPTER TWO

_Bathing Beauty?_

* * *

For a breathless few seconds, Chuck stood, unmoving, as the woman's blonde hair spread itself out on the surface of the bath water.

All at once, he grasped the situation: he pushed the curtain completely out of the way and, in the same motion, he plunged his arms into the water, putting his hands under the woman's arms, and lifting her up out of the water. He knocked the wine glass over, but it landed on the bath mat, spilling its remaining contents but not shattering. Water splashed the shiny gun still on the tub's side.

The woman did not respond; Chuck panicked. He slid the gun along the tub side, then pulled the woman over the side, her body still in the tub, but her head and shoulders over the edge. Grimacing, he opened her mouth and put his fingers down her throat. She gagged, then vomited red wine and pills, the vomit splashing on the already wine-darkened bath mat.

For a moment, her eyes opened, and she turned her head, both blue eyes affixed to Chuck. Pain and anger showed in those blue eyes-overpowering even in her weakness-but a question showed too. She started to speak, then her head dropped again. Chuck dragged her from the water and holding her close against him, her body cool and wet, he grabbed one of the decorative towels hanging from the towel rack. Keeping her against him with one arm, he used the other to towel her off, drying her somewhat. Her skin seemed to pink a bit, and he took that as a good sign. He could feel her against him, feel her breathing, regular, deep. He dropped the towel and walked her into the bedroom. He pulled back the covers and gently laid her back on the bed. He quickly retrieved the towel he dropped and located another in a cabinet. He returned to her and dried her off more carefully.

He started to remove the wet underwear but then he blushed and he could not get himself to do it. Trying not to think about what he felt beneath his hands, he pressed the towel gently against her chest, then moved it down and pressed it below her waist. He stepped around the bed and went into the huge walk-in closet. Women's clothes lined one side, men's the other.

Chuck found a blue cotton nightgown and took it back to the woman. He sat her up and clumsily put the nightgown on her. When he had covered her with it, and when her still-exposed skin felt warm and dry, he pulled up the blankets and covered her. After a moment, she sighed and rolled over, curling herself into a question mark beneath the blankets.

He stood there looking at her. As his panic subsided, the last few moments slowed down and past him in a review. The woman had been in the process of killing herself. The pills, the gun, the water. He wasn't sure how it all fit together but the point was clear enough. Still looking at her, he wondered at her face, so peaceful and so lovely resting on the pillow, framed by her damp hair. While he was toweling her dry, he had noticed that her body was marked by scars, most not easily visible: one on her calf, one on her thigh, two or three on her abdomen, one on her shoulder. Even on her lips, when he dried her face, he had seen a couple of ghostly white scars. Clearly, she had been given expert medical attention; the scars were not easily visible. But Chuck had studied with Ellie enough to know a bit about wounds. Some of the scars were the traces of once-serious injury.

But that made little sense. The woman was beautiful, stop-and-stare-if-you-have-no-manners beautiful. She lived in _this house_, this amazing if tastelessly decorated house. Why she would be covered with scars, obscured scars, was puzzling. It seemed fitting that her body had made a question mark beneath the blankets.

Chuck shook himself, trying to focus.

_What am I doing? I am stealing from this woman, and now I am saving her? _

He had no answer to his question. He had just done what he did. He walked back into the bathroom and cleaned it, just to have something to do, the bodily action quieting his mind. He put the bath mat in a towel and gathered up the damp towels. He took the pile to the washroom downstairs and put it in the washing machine. He added detergent and choose a setting. He punched the 'start' button and the machine began to fill with water. He headed back upstairs.

Checking the woman, he found her still sleeping, still breathing regularly. As far as he could tell, she was fine. He thought about calling an ambulance anonymously and then leaving, but, standing there, near her, he couldn't get himself to do it. He was almost certain that she was no longer in danger from the pills she had taken and then vomited up: the pills had not dissolved, their active ingredients were still encased, kept inactive. Still not sure why he was doing it, Chuck reached down to snug the covers closer around her, then he walked to the tv on the wall opposite the bed's end and turned it on manually. He sat down on the foot of the bed, careful not to disturb the woman. He saw the remote on the nightstand on the other side of the bed. He got up, grabbed it and resumed his position on the foot of the bed.

He idly rotated through channels until he found an episode of _I Dream of Jeannie_. It was part of a marathon of the show. Smiling to himself unconsciously, and then turning to look at the woman as he did, he settled in to watch the show while also keeping watch over her.

ooOoo

The afternoon passed. Chuck checked the woman often, but indications of her condition all continued good. He watched several episodes of _Jeannie. _He went downstairs and made himself some microwave popcorn. He carried the steaming, freshly opened bag upstairs and sat back down; another episode of the show began. He hadn't eaten since the sandwich that morning. He crunched away on the popcorn, wishing for some milk duds to drop into it, and thought of Morgan. He checked his phone. Still nothing.

"Are you gonna share, or what?"

Chuck whirled around. The woman was sitting up in bed, looking at him. Her gaze was unreadable. She seemed to be-to have been-studying him.

Chuck got up and walked to the head of the bed. Without saying a word, he held out his popcorn. She plunged her hand into the bag, knocking a few kernels onto the floor, and then began to force-feed herself the fistful of popcorn with obvious hunger. Chuck just watched. When she had finished the fistful, she smirked slightly at him and plunged her hand into the bag again. Chuck pushed it to her.

"You can have it," he said softly.

She glanced up and her eyes softened for a second before returning to inscrutability: "Thanks."

Chuck gave a small shrug. "I can make more."

Still eating, she shook her head. "No, this will do. It's all I need."

She looked at him again, another studious look. She looked down at herself, the nightgown. "Did you...dress...me?"

Chuck nodded. "Yeah, yeah. I was worried about you being cold and I found what you were wearing...not wearing...um, anyway, your...outfit...was distracting."

She re-commenced studying him. She gestured to the tv, to Jeannie in her Arabian Nights costume. "My...outfit...distracted you but hers didn't?" Her tone was flat, neutral. He wasn't sure what her point was.

"Well," Chuck began but then realized he had no idea what to say.

The woman stared at him, waiting. Then she smiled. The smile seemed reluctant in a way but more genuine for that. "My name is Sarah."

"Chuck."

"No, really?"

"Really. It's a name."

"That it is..._Chuck_."

Chuck felt his ears redden when she said his name. He felt like he had never heard it until she just said it. When she said it, she seemed to caress it and it sounded like a call to arms. He had never been galvanized by hearing his own name before.

"How are you feeling, Sarah?"

She looked down for a minute, her first display of self-consciousness. "Shitty. But then, I felt shitty...you know, before...but just in a different way."

"About that...I couldn't just leave you...there," he gestured with his head toward the bathroom.

She blushed. "Right. I get it. I would have done the same in your…" She paused and took a long hard look at him. "Wait a minute, what are you doing here? In the house?" Chuck did not immediately respond and she continued. "Were you..._cleaning the bathroom?_"

Chuck grinned against his wish. "Well, yes. But I am not, you know, the maid," she blinked at him when he said that, "I was actually here to rob you."

She took this in with no visible reaction. After a moment of silence, she spoke. "Okay. But you _were_ cleaning the bathroom, right? I wasn't so far under I was hallucinating…"

"No," Chuck said, shifting on his feet, "I...um...it's sort of my trademark. I always do some cleaning in any house I rob."

She laughed, then seemed surprised-at herself, not him. "That's weird, you know."

Chuck just shrugged. He changed the topic. "So, you are okay?"

"I'll live." She gave him a flat look. The words, pronounced softly enough, seemed to fill the room, to crowd them both.

Sarah threw the covers back and stood up. She wobbled for a second and Chuck reached out to steady her. She allowed him to do it although he could tell she found it...unnatural. After a moment, she gently pushed him away and stood on her own.

She shook her head. "What did I do to deserve _you_? Only I could manage to have my suicide stolen from me…"

The word, now spoken, made Chuck's chest tighten. Sarah took a step toward the bathroom and Chuck followed. She stopped and gave him an annoyed look. "I need to pee."

"Fine, and I need to be with you." He forced himself to match the intensity of her look. "Suicide watch. I don't plan to leave you alone."

Sarah's look grew less annoyed but more complicated. Chuck did not understand it. She seemed to size him up, physically. For a moment, he felt like he was in imminent physical danger, but the moment passed. Sarah went on into the bathroom. She got to the toilet, turned, and began to hike up her nightgown, all the while with the same complicated look on her face.

Chuck suddenly realized what was happening, and he turned around so that his back was to Sarah. He heard her laugh again. "Really? I mean, thanks. I admit, despite how you found me, I'm really not...not when myself anyway..um...immodest. But I thought you were on _suicide watch_?"

Chuck answered her: "I am...but that doesn't mean I am on..._pee _watch. I can give you a...modicum of privacy."

"'Modicum', Chuck? So you aren't just a burglar, you're an _articulate_ burglar?"

"Stanford man, sort of."

"Impressive. But…'sort of'?"

"It's complicated."

"Everything is. Tell me. I am finding it sort of hard to go with you standing there. Maybe if you talk it'll help."

"Okay...So, I was in my senior year at Stanford-computer engineering-when the guy I thought was my best friend, one of my frat brothers, accused me of cheating, got me thrown out of school…" Chuck stalled for a second but then heard the sound of Sarah peeing behind him.

"Thanks, Chuck, and...um...sorry if it seems like I'm...well...peeing on your story or something. You have a nice voice, soothing. I like to listen to it. But that, that Stanford thing, that sure sucks. I assume, despite your current means of livelihood, you were innocent?" Chuck heard her stand and then heard the toilet flush.

The timing of the flush and his story struck him as ironic, and he laughed softly but there was an edge to his laughter. "Yes, burglar I may be, but a cheater I was not."

He turned around and watched as Sarah washed her hands. He laughed again. She gave him a puzzled look. "Awfully hygienic for a woman with a death wish."

Chuck had no more than gotten the words out that he wanted to call them back. But Sarah gave him a rueful smile. "Habits are hard to break, Chuck." She turned and then seemed to notice for the first time the silver gun still on the side of the tub. She stole a quick glance at Chuck. "So you cleaned up the pills but left the gun?"

Chuck pursed his lips and then pulled them to one side of his face. "I don't do guns. They scare me. Never carried one, never will."

She responded while staring at the gun. "Not even when embarked on your life of crime, Chuck?"

"Nope."

She stepped toward the gun, then glanced at him. Chuck made no move to stop her. She picked up the gun, removed the magazine, ejected the chambered cartridge, and handed both to Chuck. He looked at her, unsure of what she was doing.

"Despite its...placement, I never intended to shoot myself, Chuck. The gun was there as...as a reminder." A look of deep pain crossed her face, and Chuck decided not to ask. He put the cartridge and magazine into his pocket. She put the gun on the bathroom counter. She walked back into the bedroom. She got in the bed, seated, not prone, and pulled the covers over her long legs. She peered intently at the tv. She patted the bed beside her. "Sit. Tell me about the blond in the skimpy outfit."

Chuck gave her a deliberate smirk. "Which one?"

Sarah punched him in the shoulder. It hurt a surprising amount. "Ouch!"

"Big baby."

"I have a condition," he said, in a solemn tone. She looked at him, waiting. "I have a pain allergy." She punched him again in the same spot.

"Again, ouch!"

"Stop whining and start explaining, Professor."

"Wrong show. No island."

She gave him a dumbfounded look. "Huh?"

"Nevermind, Ginger."Sarah blinked in incomprehension. Chuck went on. "So, this show is called _I Dream of Jeannie…_"

"Oh, a genie! Magic!"

"Right, but J-e-a-n-n-i-e. It's her name and...her job."

Sarah gave him a funny look. "Okay. And are those...astronauts? What do astronauts have to do with ancient Arabia?"

Chuck took a deep breath. This was going to take a while. At least Sarah was smiling.

ooOoo

The closing credits were playing.

As they had watched episodes of the show, Sarah slowly allowed herself to close the distance between Chuck and herself. Eventually, she was against him, her head on his shoulder. When she first put it there, he reached out and took her hand for a second, giving it a warm squeeze. She smiled at that and relaxed even more.

Sarah roused herself but did not move her head. "So, they got married after all? Despite all the troubles and interference, all the difficulties?"

Chuck nodded. "Yep. We just watched it."

"But she couldn't be photographed? Jeannie?"

"Right. Genies don't photograph-at least on the show."

"I thought that was vampires?"

"No, vampires don't _reflect_. I mean, you know, in _mirrors_. But maybe they reflect, you know, _think _about stuff, blood, and stakes..."

"Oh, yeah, and there's the crosses and the garlic thing."

"Right."

Sarah seemed lost in thought for a minute. "So, Jeannie used a mannequin to be her body double…"

"Yeah...and?"

"So, did Tony marry her-or the mannequin-or no one?"

Chuck gave her a good-natured shrug. "Jeannie, I guess, but it's a good question. The show says he married Jeannie, and she was standing beside him for the vows, although it was the mannequin standing-in in the some of wedding photographs. And even though it seemed no one was standing beside Tony during the vows, at least in the film taken of the vows."

Sarah's mood seemed to dip. "It's hard-not being present in your own life. Living through stand-ins...Fakery"

Chuck did not react to these words. He let them come and go, but he pondered them, and what they might mean. Sarah left her head on his shoulder for a while longer, even after Chuck clicked off the tv.

The room was silent for a while. "You know, Chuck," Sarah began in a whisper, "you really can't stop me. If I want to do it, I'll do it."

Chuck sat for a moment before he answered. "Look, why don't we make dinner? I'm starved. As you said, habits are hard to break, and dinner, that's almost everyone's habit, so...dinner?"

Sarah picked her head up and gazed at him, a tinge of wonder in her eyes. "I'm not much of a cook."

"That's okay. We can do something easy. How about eggs, maybe scrambled, or an omelet?"

Sarah held his gaze for a moment. "Actually, I'm good with eggs. But I'm not sure I feel up to facing a skillet…"

"That's okay. You can just give me instructions and I will do it for you."

"Like Jeannie's mannequin?" Her tone was funny, sad and happy all at once.

"Um...Sure. Let's go." Chuck stood and offered Sarah his hand. She hesitated for a moment, then she reached out and let him help her up. Her hand was warm in his, yielding. He let it go carefully once she was up; he did not want to transgress against her boundaries. They seemed to have reached some at least temporary understanding.

Chuck started downstairs and he heard her bare feet padding behind him. But he did not turn around, did nothing to suggest he did not fully expect her to follow. He stepped off the stairs and walked across to the kitchen. He opened the massive refrigerator. "Say, where do you keep the eggs?"

Sarah did not answer. She walked up beside him and opened the door alcove on the interior of the door marked 'Eggs'. A carton was there. Chuck opened it; there were five eggs. Enough. He checked the expiration date-still good. He hunted around and found a stick of butter and a few vegetables in a drawer that looked reasonably fresh. He handed the vegetables to Sarah. "Can you cut these? It's all I'll ask you to do. I'm just clumsy with knives. I tend to bleed on the vegetables."

She nodded. She crossed to the large island, put the vegetables on the cutting board stationed on it, and then pulled a knife from the knife block beside the cutting board. She spun the knife in her hand like a Western fast-draw might spin his pistol. She noticed that Chuck saw it. "I'm surprised," she said as she began to make short work of the slicing and dicing, "that you would let the suicidal woman use a knife…"

Chuck gave her a steady look. He was melting butter in a skillet. He had found it while Sarah had gotten started on the vegetables. He had also found a bowl, and he was cracking the eggs and putting them in it. "Here's the thing, Sarah. We have eggs-but most importantly, we have butter and…" he reached past her to the center of the island, "...we have salt." He gave the shaker a gentle shake, careful not to actually shake any salt out.

"No one wants to leave a world in which there's butter and salt." When Sarah smirked, Chuck continued. "Don't forget, I saw you stuffing your face with fistfuls of buttery, salty popcorn a little while ago…"

Sarah blushed and looked away. When she looked back, Chuck had finished salting the eggs and was whisking them in the bowl with a fork. "Don't whisk them too much, Chuck. After all that salt, they'll be tough."

He stopped whisking and raised an eyebrow. "Really? Is that true?"

Sarah nodded, glad that he had not commented on or acknowledged her blush. "Yes, I learned it from a Basque cook in Spain."

Chuck's other eyebrow rose. "Spain? Wow! I've never been anywhere. Other than my doomed time in Palo Alto, I really haven't ever left LA. Did you travel a lot?"

Sarah chewed her bottom lip for a second. "At one time, it was almost all I did. But my travel was all _verb_ if you know what I mean. I never exactly went anywhere or vacationed or toured or...you know, whatever."

"Why?"

"Work." She offered no more for a little while and Chuck poured the egg into the melted butter. As he worked the eggs in the skillet, Sarah spoke again. "My only mementos of travel were stamps in my passport. I don't have a single photo...not really. In and out, that's what I did. If I was anyplace for more than a few hours, work kept me from being able to pay attention to anything there."

"What did you do?" Chuck tried to keep his tone light, conversational, but he was curious, very curious. The gun, the scars, the knife. What had she her work been?

"It doesn't matter anymore, Chuck. I quit a year ago or so. I've been trying to find a new job since, but I can't seem to find one that I like."

"None as good as the one you had?" Chuck suggested.

"No," Sarah said with a tone of finality. "Anything would be better than that. No, I just can't seem to find any place I feel at home…"

"You don't feel at home here?" Chuck made a general circular gesture with the wooden spatula he was using to tend the eggs. Before she could answer, he pointed to the cutting board and the vegetables. Sarah handed him the cutting board. He dumped the veggies into the eggs.

Sarah frowned. "What?" Chuck asked.

"We probably should've sauteed the vegetables first. I stopped paying attention."

Chuck laughed. "You sliced these things up so perfectly and so thinly, I don't think it will matter." He stirred the mixture then looked at her. "You never answered me."

"Answered what?"

He gave her a small, gotcha grin. "Do you not feel at home here?"

Sarah looked around, her face blank. She shrugged. "Not really."

There was finality in her tone again and Chuck returned his attention to the eggs. He found a plate and, moving the skillet off the stove and over the counter, he put the plate on top of it and flipped the two together. The eggs moved from the skillet to the plate. Chuck then slid the eggs back into the skillet.

Sarah was watching him closely. "Nicely done, Chuck. Nicely done. That's how the Spanish cook taught me to do it. No folding, just a flip."

"I haven't ever gone anywhere, but I have traveled extensively on YouTube."

Sarah chuckled. "You are one surprising burglar, you know that?'

Chuck shot her a glance. "And, let me guess. You don't like surprises."

Sarah turned her palms up and shrugged. "Normally, no. But today is not normal. This is not a normal dinner. And, Chuck, if you don't mind me saying so, this feels sort of like a date. Not a normal date, but a date…"

Chuck's ears tinged. "It's not a date. Just two...friends...eating eggs."

He slid the eggs from the skillet back onto the plate. He motioned for Sarah to give him the knife, and he cut the puffy eggs into two large pieces. He got another plate and moved one half to it, handing the plate to Sarah. She took it to the small table and sat down. Chuck took his plate and set it down across from hers.

He went back and opened drawers until he found silverware. He came back with a knife and fork for each of them, and with the salt and pepper shakers. He made one more trip, coming back with two glasses (in one hand) and a carton of milk (in the crook of his arm), as well as with two napkins from another drawer (in his other hand). He put the glasses down, and then gave Sarah a napkin and put one beside his own plate. He then poured them both a glass of milk, only then thinking to check the date. He nodded. Still good. Like the eggs, the milk had yet to reach the expiration date.

He looked up to see Sarah studying him again, an abstracted smile on her face. He smiled back. She had her fork in her hand and she pointed it at his empty chair.

"Sit. I hate to eat alone."

Chuck sat. He thought about the morning-it seemed so far away now-and eating Morgan's half of the Chuckster alone in the tiny kitchen of their apartment. He still had not heard from Morgan. He was worried about that, but, for now, Sarah took precedence.

"Me too," he noted.

Sarah took a bite of the eggs and gave him a shy smile. "Good," she said softly, "really good."


	3. The Last Supper

AU novella. Herded by circumstance, Chuck falls on hard times and into a life of crime. But his new job does not go according to his plan.

* * *

**Dying to Death**

CHAPTER THREE

_The Last Supper_

* * *

Chuck cleared the table when they finished their omelet. They had not talked much but the atmosphere had been relaxed, almost pleasant. Sarah sat at the table and watched Chuck work, loading the dishwasher and then wiping down the stove and the counters.

"You really _like_ to clean, don't you?"

Chuck stopped wiping the counter but kept his eyes on the folded piece of paper towel he had been using. "I guess so. It calms me down."

"But I thought you said it was your trademark." Sarah got up and walked into the living room. She seated herself in the middle of the black leather sectional and turned to look at Chuck over the back of it, her chin resting on her crossed arms.

Chuck made one last half-hearted wipe of the counter, then he threw the paper towel in the trash. "It is. But I don't know why. The police call me 'Mr. Clean'..."

Sarah giggled. "No!"

Chuck felt himself shrink a little. "Yes. They think I do it to show off or to mock them or something. I really do it to salve my conscience. I hate that I do this-but I can't seem to stop. I mean, I want to but…"

"But it just seems like you are on rails, stretching infinitely ahead of you." Sarah's voice lowered as she said this.

Chuck stared at her. He nodded. "Exactly. It's like everything conspired to put me on the rails, like a kid putting a toy train on electric tracks, and now I can move, speed up or slow down, but I have no say in my destination or in the path that takes me there."

Sarah's eyes had moistened. Chuck could tell from across the room. He asked, just loud enough to be heard: "You too?"

She nodded. "Yes, me too."

"Your job?"

"My job."

They were both silent for a long while. "But, Chuck, you were almost a Stanford grad. You are obviously smart. I get the feeling you can do anything you put your mind to, have anything you want."

Chuck glanced at her and then feared his eyes would give him away, and so he shifted them. "Maybe, Sarah. But the truth is…" He stalled.

Sarah waited. When Chuck said nothing more, she restarted his sentence. "But the truth is..._what?"_

"The truth is that I just feel like anything I do will eventually...fail, die. I lost my parents when I was little. My sister, Ellie, gave up her childhood to raise me. Made all sorts of sacrifices. Got me through high school. I had a scholarship at Stanford, and...a girl. It all died. I came home and lived with my sister, worked a crap job. And then even that went belly-up, and I guess I have just come to think that _belly-up_ is the posture of my future."

His eyes had settled on the trash can as he spoke. He realized he was staring at it and returned his eyes to Sarah. There were tears on her face. "God, Sarah," Chuck began, moving toward her, "I'm sorry! So sorry. I shouldn't be whining to you, talking like that…" He reached the sofa and knelt down so that he could face her. Her blue eyes were pools of tears.

"No, Chuck, it's okay. I'm not crying.."-she wiped at her eyes with a forearm-"for me, really, I'm crying for you...and sorta for everyone, I guess. God, life sucks. Living is so damn hard."

Chuck cautiously put his hand on her damp arm; she did not pull away. "Why, Sarah? Why were you in that tub? The pills? The gun?"

Chuck saw wariness and vulnerability mixed in her wet eyes. Her full lips thinned, pressed into a line. But then she relaxed a little, almost smiled. "Well, the gun was there because it is...sort of my trademark. I'm used to having it around."

Chuck felt his jaw go slack, he knew he was gaping. "What does that _mean_, Sarah?"

She dropped her head on his hand, still on her arm. She spoke with her face hidden. "My job, Chuck. I worked for the government." Pause.

"Doing what, polishing pistols? Cause that gun is damned shiny." Chuck thought Sarah was sobbing, then he realized she was laughing.

She lifted her head. "No, Chuck, I was not a pistol polisher."

Chuck mock-wiped his brow. "Whew, good. Because that sounded like the beginning of a tongue twister. _Pretty Polly purchased a polished pistol. Who polished the pistol pretty Polly purchased?_..."

Sarah bubbled a bit more laughter, given Chuck another of her undecipherable looks. "You are a strange and complicated burglar."

Chuck snorted. "And you haven't even seen my collection of Star Wars action figures."

Sarah's eyes widened. "Really? Of course, you have a collection of action figures. But I don't know that movie."

"Sarah! How is that _possible_? I understand not knowing _I Dream of Jeannie_-kinda. A little before our time unless your youth was as misspent as mine, I guess," he saw a shadow flit across Sarah's face, spoiling her grin for a second, "but Star Wars is like, I don't know, a part of Western mythology now, a crucial link in The Great Chain of Being."

Sarah, shaking her head at him in disbelief: "My childhood was...misspent too, but not on tv and movies and video games. That normal kid stuff...Well, I wasn't a normal kid. And I started working...young. I missed out on a lot of things."

Chuck decided to see if she would go on. She was a mystery. He didn't need to solve her (as if he could), but he needed to understand his un-understanding of her.

He stood up and walked around and sat down beside her. She turned and faced him.

A tear was still on her cheek. He reached out and put his fingers on her cheek, below the tear, and softly used his thumb to wipe it away.

Her cheeks reddened. She started chewing her bottom lip again. She stopped. He saw the decision in her eyes. She focused her eyes on the floor and spoke, each word costly in the effort.

"So, Chuck, my job. I worked...for the government...but not as Polly, the purchased-pistol polisher. No. I worked as...a Special Agent for the CIA. I was a spy." He saw her glance toward him quickly, gauging his reaction.

Chuck kept his face set, but his mind whirled: it all made sense: the scars, the gun, the travel, the knife skills...He believed her. "Wow. A spy? Like James Bond. That's cool."

Sarah frowned. "No, not really, Chuck. It sounds cool, yes. But the real job is a far cry from what you think. James Bond does not exist. The real world of spying is about as distant from glamorous and exciting as anything could be."

Chuck shook his head, smiling ruefully. "Right. I get that. And burglary is not like it seems in _To Catch a Thief. _John Robie does not exist. The real world of burglary is a hell of a long way from the French Riviera. It's a petty, dirty business."

"Except when you are cleaning…"

Chuck looked up and they both laughed. "I guess so." He kept his eyes on hers, sobering. "So, what exactly does a real CIA spy do?"

She hesitated. "It depends on your skill set, really. I did a lot of different things…"

"Like what?"

She dropped her head. "Not right now, Chuck. I don't want to talk about it right now. Could we do something else instead?"

Her tone had darkened and it worried Chuck. There was a sudden stiffness in her posture, evident even though she was seated.

"How about we watch a movie?"

Sarah nodded, almost mechanically, like the mannequin in the _Jeannie _episode. Chuck walked to the shelves alongside the tv, shelves filled with DVDs. "Hey, Star Wars! Time for some serious educational viewing."

Sarah huffed but smiled. "Okay, Professor, start it up."

"Whatever you say, Mary Anne."

Sarah looked puzzled. "Ginger? Mary Anne? The island? Are those all connected to 'Professor'?"

Chuck straightened himself and wagged a professorial index finger in the air, taking on a pontificating tone. "Patience, student. _That_ is a Higher Mystery. One must do obeisance in the square in front of the Temple, before being admitted to the Holy of Holies…"

"You are one _strange_ burglar." Sarah grabbed a pillow from beside her and threw it at him, hitting him dead center in his face. She did it so fast he had not had time to react at all. He looked at her in wonderment; she looked away.

He put the DVD in and sat down beside her _in a galaxy far, far away... _

ooOoo

The movie had ended. As it played, Sarah had laid back on the couch, extending her long legs across Chuck's lap. He expected her to go to sleep, but she stayed awake. She watched the movie, got involved in it. When it finished, she made no move to change positions and Chuck had no desire to do so. He noticed her rubbing her feet together.

"Are you cold?"

"Just my feet-but they're always cold."

"Cold feet, warm heart."

"I wish it were so," Sarah said, her voice resigned, "but I believe it's just the slushy blood from my icy heart chilling my feet…"

Chuck extended his hand toward her feet but did not touch them. "May I?"

She looked surprised, reluctant, surprised again, then she nodded. Chuck began to rub one of her feet, trying to warm it. He saw Sarah's eyes close, then felt her sink into the couch, the stiffness of earlier slowly leaving her.

"Don't get any ideas, but that feels so, so good." It was less human speech, more an articulate purr. "Please, don't stop."

Chuck did not stop. He massaged her feet with gentle strength for a long time. After a little while, her feet felt warm to the touch. And he could see that her color had risen in her face and along her neck. She crossed her arms over her chest. He went on massaging her for a little while longer, and then she half-rolled in place and opened her eyes. The longing for her Chuck felt he thought he saw mirrored in a longing for him in hers. She let him see it for a few seconds, then she pulled her feet back, rotated around, and stood up.

"I need to go to bed. How's this suicide watch supposed to work now?"

"I can sleep in a chair in the bedroom. Or on the floor. I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but I...I don't want to leave you alone, Sarah."

She nodded slowly. "I'll make you a pallet on the floor. That chair up there looks like it would mangle you-especially since you are so tall."

Chuck stood up and he followed her up the stairs, careful to focus on his feet as they went up, and not on the Sarah beneath the blue nightgown.

In the room, Sarah took a minute then produced three blankets. She folded two of them and then put one on top of the other on the floor. She grabbed one of the pillows off the bed and put it with the blankets. She knelt down and pressed on the stacked blankets. She seemed satisfied with them. She handed him the third. "I think that'll be warm and comfortable."

"You seem practiced at that."

"As I said, I have traveled a lot, and not always, not mostly, first-class. I've had to sleep in some...awful places. I've had to make do." She shuddered at some obviously vivid memory.

Chuck clicked off the overhead light. The room was illuminated only by the light from the bathroom. Sarah went into the bathroom, closing the door. In the resulting dark, Chuck shed his pants and shirt. He fished into the pocket of his pants and removed the cartridge and magazine Sarah had given him. He settled on the pallet, putting the cartridge and magazine inside the pillowcase.

Light from the bathroom flooded into the room again in a moment, along with the sound of the toilet flushing. The light clicked off. Chuck heard Sarah get into the bed, then he heard her voice near him. "Here, Chuck, take this." He reached, blinded in the fresh dark, toward her voice. He felt cold metal. Her gun. "What do you want me to do with it, Sarah?"

She did not answer for a moment. "Just keep it for me, okay?"

"Sure."

Chuck put the gun under this folded pants and shirt, beside him on the floor. He stared up toward the ceiling, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. Just as they began to do so, he fell asleep.

ooOoo

Chuck woke up warm, very warm. And snug. He cracked one eye and realized that he was warm and snug because of Sarah. She was on the narrow pallet with him, beneath the blanket. She was wrapped around him, arms and legs, no distance between them, her legs intertwined with his, her feet against his own, all warm.

He was afraid to move. He did not want to wake her, or, waking her, embarrass her. Still, it seemed unlikely she was where she was by mistake or accident. She must have moved there in the night.

Chuck was still debating with himself when he heard her sigh. She rubbed her face into his t-shirt, inhaling. Then he glanced down and saw her open her eyes, saw her realize where she was and what she was doing. He expected her to flee from the pallet, from him. But instead, she gave him a self-conscious smile and closed her eyes again, putting her head back against his chest.

Chuck had never felt as close to a woman as he did to Sarah at that moment. But it made no sense. Other than knowing that she tried to kill herself and had been a CIA agent, he knew virtually nothing else about her. What was her last name? Was she married? Was her last name Smith, like the man who owned the house? Would she try to kill herself again if he left her alone?

It made no sense. He knew Lou. He knew lots about her. She was a sweet woman. She really liked him. She was not suicidal. But even when she had squirmed in his lap, and despite his involuntary physical reaction to her squirming, he had felt nothing comparable to what he felt at that moment for Sarah, the overwhelming desire for Sarah he felt. He just hoped Sarah did not glance down at the blanket, or she would know something about his desire for her.

She did not glance down. She stayed where she was for a while, eyes closed. He closed his eyes too, luxuriating in the feel of her, luxuriating in his desire for her.

Sarah spoke, her eyes still closed. "I hope you don't mind, Chuck. I woke up during the night and I felt...panicky. Alone. And then I remembered you were here, and I...I needed to feel you against me. I needed...human contact."

"No problem. I'm here...to help."

"I don't know why. You should just have left me where you found me, Chuck. You don't need my problems. You have problems of your own."

"I do. I know it. But, crazy as this sounds, a person's problems never seem so bad when he-or she-cares about someone else's problems. Maybe that's why we're-I mean, you know, humans generally-aren't meant to be alone? We can't keep our problems in perspective unless we genuinely care about someone else's. Maybe commitment to another is the best defense against self-obsession."

Sarah opened her eyes and looked at him, another studying stare. "You are a very strange burglar. How can a petty thief be a wise man, Chuck?"

Chuck looked at her and answered without thinking. "How can a suicidal woman make me feel so alive?'

Sarah sat bolt upright. A moment later she was on her feet, heading to the bathroom. "I have to go."

ooOoo

The morning passed slowly. Sarah seemed skittish and stiff after their pallet chat. She showered and dressed. Chuck washed out of the sink, afraid to get in the shower and leave Sarah alone, especially now that things were awkward.

Chuck found a box of cereal in the kitchen and they ate standing up, one on one end of the kitchen, the other on the other. Chuck did not know how to walk back what he had said, and implied, earlier.

Sarah found a book and began to read. Chuck cleaned up after breakfast and then took out his phone. He still had not heard from Morgan. He was beginning to worry about that. He sent Morgan another text, then texted Harry Tang to see if perhaps he had seen Morgan. No one responded right away, so Chuck spent a few minutes checking sites online. He looked at his email. Devon had sent him a brief note, just checking in for Ellie and asking Chuck to give him a call. He reminded Chuck that it had been a while. Chuck thought about calling but then decided to wait. He just did not feel up to Devon's relentless good cheer.

Lunchtime came and went. They did not speak. They did not eat. Finally, Chuck heard Sarah's stomach growl. He was certainly hungry.

"So, are you still planning to...planning to do it?"

Sarah looked at him, shrugging.

"Well, if so, how about we just forget this morning and I plan and cook a last meal for you? I have one good recipe. But we'll have to leave to go to the store. The ingredients I need are not here." Sarah's face suggested that she was about to say no. "Please," Chuck implored.

Sarah sighed. "Okay. But I get to drive."

"My truck? Driving that is no big thrill."

"No, Chuck. I'll drive what's in the garage." She got up and headed in that direction. Chuck followed her. He had never gone into the garage.

Inside the garage was a large black motorcycle, heavy and dangerous-looking. There were helmets on pegs on the wall. Sarah took one down and threw it to Chuck, then took the other down and started to put it on.

"No, wait. You've got to be kidding. I am supposed to get on that thing-behind you, behind a _suicidal woman_-and trust you to get us to the store?"

Sarah grinned at him, mischief in her eyes. "Exactly. C'mon, lawbreaker. I thought you had ice water in your veins."

"Um, no, and by your confession last night, codebreaker, I think it's you who have ice water in her veins. Um… _his _veins. Um..._their _veins."

While Chuck fought with grammar, Sarah mounted the cycle. "Go with _her. _And stop being such a girl, Chuck."

Chuck gulped and put on the helmet. He climbed on the motorcycle behind Sarah. "Put your arms around me, Chuck, and don't let go." She started it up and pressed a button on the handlebars. The garage door opened. She maneuvered the bike past Chuck's truck and out onto the road. Everything seemed fine in the neighborhood, sedate and pleasant, but when they got on the highway, that all changed.

Sarah wrung a scream from the bike's engine and they missiled up the road, needling in and out of traffic, blasting past eighteen-wheelers. Chuck squeezed himself tighter to Sarah, and that seemed to encourage her to push the bike even harder. Chuck was certain they would leave the ground, that they might break the sound barrier. He had to close his eyes; he could not watch. The world had been reduced to a passing blur of colors and indistinct shapes.

He leaned his head against Sarah's back and tried not to think about his nearness to death. Or about her state of mind.

ooOoo

"We're here, Chuck."

Chuck opened his eyes. He had lost track of everything except the warmth, and the disconcerting hardness and softness of the woman in his arms. They were in a supermarket parking lot. Stopped. The motorcycle off. Sarah let Chuck dismount, then she did. She took off her helmet and shook out her hair. Chuck's breath caught in his throat. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. She gave him an amused look and he realized he still had on his helmet. He took it off. They carried their helmets into the store, putting them in the grocery cart they pulled from the line of carts near the door.

Sarah gave him an expectant glance. "Okay, Chuck, what's on the menu for my last earthly meal?"

Chuck tried to smile but knew he failed. He saw a flash of pain in her eyes. It turned into a thoughtful frown.

"Well...we need pasta…"

Sarah gave him a narrow glance. "I try to avoid carbs."

"Really? But not death? _Last meal_, remember? Carb it up." Chuck could hear the hurt in his voice.

Chuck had his hands on the grocery cart handle. Sarah reached out and put one hand on one of his. "Chuck, you've been...sweet. I'm in your debt. Don't take this personally."

Chuck pushed the cart ahead, forcing her hand off his. "Sweet? God, Sarah, I am a grown man, not a boy."

From behind, he heard her comment softly. "I know you are a grown man, Chuck."

He stopped pushing the cart and turned to her. They were standing in Produce; she was framed against boxes of fruit. "How can I not take this personally. We're...we're friends."

Sarah blinked slowly in response but said nothing. She pressed her lips into a thin line. "I don't have friends, Chuck."

Ignoring the other shoppers, Chuck stepped to Sarah and took her hand. "Yes, you do. I am your new friend. You must have some old ones?"

The line of her lips thinned even more. "No, not anymore. Not really."

Chuck's tone became apologetic. "Are they...did they…"

"No, Chuck. We just...drifted apart, let's say. And I guess I do have one, but she's never around."

"I'm sorry, Sarah. Have I told you about Morgan?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Well, I can talk while we shop. Like I said, we need pasta, and pepperoni...and chicken."

Sarah made a dubious face.

"C'mon, O ye of little faith, trust me."

Sarah smiled a sneaky smile. "You know, I do."

Chuck felt a surge of warmth despite standing in the refrigerated aisle.

"So, Morgan. How do I describe Morgan…"

ooOoo

"And you still haven't heard from him?" Sarah asked the question as they stood in the checkout line, the necessary items for dinner in the cart with their helmets. They were talking softly.

Chuck pulled out his phone. Harry Tang reported no contact with Morgan. And there was no response from Morgan himself. "No, still haven't."

"Why do you think he quit?"

"I don't know. I admit, it bugs me. I mean, I know how this sounds, given how you and I met, but I am normally the moral compass for the two of us. It's weird to feel like Morgan's the one who is choosing the strait and narrow, and leaving me in the wrong."

"Do you think he really wants a career at the Gas and Sip?"

Chuck stopped the cart for a moment and reflected. "No, not really. If I'm honest, I really saw this coming. He's been getting more and more nervous about doing this. Reluctant. Complaining. I thought he was just...in a phase. But maybe he has wanted out for a while."

"Maybe he never wanted _in, _Chuck, but he wanted to be with you so much he was willing to do it?" Sarah raised one eyebrow as she asked.

Chuck hung his head. "Maybe. And maybe it turns out he's the brains of the outfit, after all."

"Maybe, Chuck. But you can still change your mind. Today is a new day. You can start over."

Chuck raised his eyebrow. "Physician, heal thyself?"

Sarah glanced away. Then she turned away. She picked up a _National Enquirer _and began paging through it, although it was obvious she was not reading it.

Chuck paid for the groceries as a young man bagged them. He handed the bag to Sarah. She reached in the cart and got Chuck's helmet. She handed it to him after he had returned his wallet to his pocket. Chuck took the bag. She got her helmet and they left the store.

When they reached the motorcycle, Chuck held the bag up. "Can we maybe take it a little more slowly. I won't be able to hold on with both hands."

"Sure, Chuck. Sorry if I scared you before. Speed clears my head. I needed to go fast."

"How about going slow for me?"

"I can do that."

ooOoo

Back at the house, the garage door closed, the bike shut off and the helmets back on their pegs, Chuck spread out the items they had bought on the counter. Sarah was standing in the kitchen, watching, waiting.

Chuck made a motion toward the stairs. "Why don't you put on something...dressy. I'll get this started and then see if I can find something. I keep a change of clothes in the truck. I can at least be more presentable."

Sarah did not move. "Is this supposed to be a date, Chuck. I mean, if the eggs yesterday weren't, isn't tonight's chicken and pepperoni..._a date?"_

"Are you turning me down, Sarah?"

"I don't know. I guess I need to know if I am being asked first. Am I?"

"First date, last meal?"

Sarah shrugged. "I guess if you are asking."

"Then, yes, Sarah, I am asking. Will you go out-stay in-with me tonight?"

The studying look he was growing used to returned. They stood facing each other until Chuck thought the suspense would kill him.

"Yes, Chuck, I will. It's a date."

Before Chuck could react or really see her reaction, she turned and walked quickly to the stairs and then up them. Chuck let out the breath he realized he had been holding. He started cooking.

Once the chicken pepperoni was in the oven, the salad made and in bowls, and the wine decanting, Chuck went to the truck. He kept a change of clothes in a gym bag. The clothes were more formal than he usually wore. To be honest, he kept them there as part of a getaway plan, figuring that he might be able, if he were being chased, to change and to slip away unnoticed in a crowd. It was probably a stupid plan, but it comforted him some. He had a similar bag for Morgan, although he had never told Morgan of its existence.

He got the clothes, still neatly folded in the gym bag, and took them inside. He changed in the washroom. As he did, he remembered the pile of towels and the bath mat he had put in the washer the day before. He opened it, and the sour smell met him immediately. He put in more detergent and started another wash cycle. It wasn't like him to be sloppy about cleaning. He shook his head.

He finished dressing and ran his hands through his unruly curls, hoping to make them better ordered. He went back into the kitchen and checked the oven. The meal would be ready soon.

As excited in one way as he was to share it with Sarah, as excited in one way as he was about their date, he dreaded it in another. Was she serious about this being their first date but her last meal? Wasn't there some way to stop her, to convince her that she should not do...what she had tried to do?

Chuck heard the sound of heels coming down the stairs. He looked up to see Sarah coming down. She was in a white strapless dress. It was short, emphasizing the length of her legs. She had brushed her hair and it was even more lustrous. She had on no make-up, other than red lipstick. She had on a pair of white heels. Chuck walked toward the stairs as she descended. When she saw his face, she smiled, her smile larger and freer than any he had yet seen. It eclipsed the dress and the heels. He saw what she was wearing, but it was to her that he attended.

He put up his hand and she took it, allowing him to help her with the final step. Without forethought, he put his other arm around her and drew her gently to him. He kissed her softly on the lips.

"You look...Well, you are incomparable."

She smiled her pleasure at the words. Then she kissed him softly on the lips. "You look nice too."

They stepped apart. "Is dinner ready?"

"Yes, you sit down while I finish putting things together."

Sarah walked to the table and took her place. Chuck removed the chicken pepperoni from the oven. He took the salads to the table. "God, Chuck, that smells so good. I am starving."

They began to eat and talk.

First date.

Last meal.

ooOoo

When they finished, they kept talking for a while, not about anything in particular, really, just talking. Eventually, Chuck got up and took Sarah by the hand. He was leading her to the sectional, when she tugged him in the direction of the stairs.

"Take me upstairs, Chuck. I want...I want to be...with you. Please?"

Chuck stopped. Sarah was standing on the first step, he was standing at the bottom of the stairs.

"Sarah, I want to. I want _you_. I want you more than I ever wanted anyone in my life, _so much more_. But I don't do one-night stands. Especially not like _this_. Especially not with _you_. I want you to be part of my life, Sarah. I don't want to be part of your death. So, no, I can't."

Sarah burst into tears and, dropping his hand, she ran up the stairs.

Chuck stood at the bottom and watched her go.


	4. Endings and Beginnings

AU novella. Herded by circumstance, Chuck falls on hard times and into a life of crime. But his new job does not go according to his plan.

* * *

**Dying to Death**

CHAPTER FOUR

_Endings and Beginnings_

* * *

Part One

_Water Burial_

* * *

Chuck stared up the stairs. He heard the bedroom door slam. The sound, though not unexpected, made him jump. He started up after Sarah but then stopped where she had stood before, on the first step.

He suddenly understood what Sarah meant when she told him he could not stop her. She did not mean or did not only mean, that eventually she would escape his watch and do what she had planned to do. No, she-also-meant that _he _could not stop _her. _

She was a trained spy, comfortable with guns and knives and physical struggle. Chuck had not punched anyone since he punched a bully for mistreating Morgan in junior high. He had never touched a gun until he touched Sarah's.

If Sarah wanted to do it, she could force it; he really could not stop her. The gun was upstairs, under the blankets on the floor where he put it after he got up. The cartridge and magazine were still inside the pillowcase. She could easily find both. She probably knew where they were all along. It made no sense to try to stop her physically. She would do it if she wanted to do it: that was true and he made himself repeat it.

Why was he there? Why keep trying to delay her, to find some argument to bring her around? He could not keep her if she wanted to leave, permanently leave. He did not understand her, what had happened to her, what she had done. How was chicken pepperoni supposed to even her score?

He turned and retreated to the kitchen. He stood there for a while, his hands deep in his pockets, his head hanging low. After a bit, he sighed and went out to his truck. He got in and put the keys in the ignition. He started the engine. He gunned it a couple of times, watching the door, hoping she would emerge, stop him. But she never came. His vision blurred and he wiped his eyes. He was lucky he had not been caught, that no neighbor had gotten curious about the strange truck parked out front. Maybe the best thing to do was leave. Maybe this...whatever it was...had gone belly-up, maybe it was just...over. He started to put the truck into gear when his phone beeped. He put the truck out of gear and fished out his phone.

He had a text from Morgan.

**Sorry, Chuck. I didn't want to respond until I was sure you finished the job. I knew if I responded or came home you would talk me into continuing. This is no life for me, Chuck. It's no life for you. You still have so much potential, man. Find your path. -M.**

Chuck read the text several times. It was by far the longest text Morgan had sent him. Chuck felt something inside him, something that had already been shifting, turning, click over. Morgan-Morgan!-was right. This was no life for Chuck. Jail or Hell.

Hell, no.

He had met the woman of his dreams. Admittedly, the circumstances were not normal. But maybe that was Chuck's mistake, thinking that if he could not have the normal life he pictured for himself after Stanford, that he could have no life at all. Maybe he should just give up on the life he had pictured and find the life he could live. But, he knew, he needed _her_ to do it. He needed Sarah.

He shut down the engine and got out. He ran back into the house and sprinted up the stairs. The bedroom door was open. Sarah was nowhere to be seen. The white heels were on the floor.

His heart sinking, he ran into the bathroom. The tub was empty. She was not there. He went downstairs. He looked out the back door and saw Sarah. The pool lights were on.

She was floating in the pool, motionless.

ooOoo

Chuck threw open the door and charged the pool. He dove in headfirst. Swimming to Sarah, he got hold of her, his arms around her and the white dress she still had on. He swam desperately for the side of the pool, then, holding Sarah's head above water, he clambered out. As he had when she was in the tub, he put his arms underneath hers and hoisted her from the pool. He put her down gently on the edge, half on the concrete that surrounded the pool, half on the manicured grass. She did not respond.

"Sarah, Sarah, Sarah! God, don't be gone. Please, please!" He opened her mouth and breathed into it, then he compressed her chest with his hands. Still, no response. He repeated the two steps. Nothing. No response. "Sarah, come back to me. I need you. Sarah!" _I don't even know your last name. Smith? No. Sarah, please. _

He started to breathe into her mouth again when she spat pool water into his face. She sputtered and coughed. Her eyes focused and focused on him. "Chuck!" She threw her arms around him and pulled him tight against her. "Chuck!"

He held her, the water in her dress soaking into his clothes unnoticed.

"You didn't leave me. You came for me! You came back!"

"I will always come back for you, Sarah," he whispered into her ear. He felt her lips against his neck, kissing him over and over. Chuck put his arms beneath her and lifted her up. He carried her across the threshold and back into the house.

He put her down on the sectional. "I'll be right back." She nodded. He ran up the stairs to the bathroom and grabbed more towels, then ran back down. Sarah was sitting up, holding herself, shivering. He put a towel around her shoulders and, lifting her slightly, put one beneath her. He put another over her lap. He sat down beside her and pulled her to him, sharing his body heat with her. They sat that way, damp and silent, for a little while.

Finally, she turned her head to look into his eyes. "I tried not to, Chuck. When I felt the water closing in, I tried to get out, to get out and to find you. I'm good at finding people. But I waited too long. I sank and could not get out. I don't want to die, Chuck. I just...I just don't want to be alone anymore, hopeless anymore. And, with you, I don't have to be."

"It's okay, Sarah. It's okay. I am here. I am not leaving. I can't leave you. I don't want to be alone or hopeless anymore either." Sarah threw her arms around his neck and sobbed into his shoulder. He rubbed her shoulders and let her cry.

Her sobs lessened, ended. She sat back. "Chuck, the things I did for my job. Maybe they were justified, but they were tearing me apart. I thought for a while I could live with them, thought things were changing. But they didn't. I knew I had to quit. I did. I quit. I went into Langley and gave Langston Graham, the Director, my resignation. But everything soured. My plans...fell apart. I did not know how to be anything else, did not know what else to be. The past chased me around. I got tired of running from it. So very, very tired…"

"Shhh...Sarah, it is okay. It's the past. As you said, you can start again."

"Can I, Chuck? Will you start again with me?"

He made sure he was looking her in the eyes when he answered: "Yes, Sarah, I will. Right now."

Sarah caught his lips in a kiss. He could feel her against him, her warmth returning, his increasing. He picked her up again and carried her up the stairs. Her arms were around his neck, her face hidden there.

Once in the bedroom, he put her down on her feet. He unzipped the dress and let it fall to the floor. She stepped out of it. She stood before him in only her panties. She pushed them over her hips and let them join the dress on the floor. He took off his clothes. She pulled him to her and then backed to the bed. She got in, keeping her eyes on him. He got in too, taking the spot she left for him beside her. She reached down and pulled the blankets over them both, then she wrapped herself around him as she had been that morning. Her skin was warm now. His too. He held her against him and her damp hair spread across his chest. They fell asleep at the same time, wrapped together, warm, and still warming each other.

ooOoo

At some point in the night, Chuck did not know when exactly, they both woke up.

They made love in eager, mutual abandon, but without hurry, discovering each other, and discovering themselves together. They both wept when it was over the first time, then each kissed away the other's tears and they made love again, and again. Each called out the other's name as they finished.

Eventually, they fell asleep once more.

ooOoo

Chuck woke up to find two blue eyes studying him once more. The eyes were open, deep, unguarded. He lifted his head a bit from the pillow. "What are you studying, Sarah? Oh, and what is your last name?"

She chuckled. "Walker. I am Sarah Walker. And yours?"

"Bartowski. I am Chuck Bartowski."

Her gaze became reflective. "'Bartowski', huh. Kind of a mouthful." She blushed.

So did Chuck. "Um...Yes, it is. And you are studying?"

"I am studying Chuck Bartowski. You are kind of a mind-full, you know that. A puzzling and unprecedented man, at least in my experience. I'm not sure I will ever quite understand you, or how you showed up here when I needed you most. It's like you fell from the sky."

"A goose-laid golden egg?"

She chuckled again. "Something like that. But I was also just checking…"

"Checking?"

"To make sure you are real. And still here."

"Yes to both..._Miss_ Walker?"

"Yes, that's right. I'm assuming there's no _Mrs._ Bartowski."

"No Mrs. Bartowski."

"Good. I was confident. After everything last night…"

"Me, too. And you are still here?"

Sarah looked down for a minute. "Yes, here, and staying."

"Good. I was confident. After everything last night…"

"I know. I'm sorry, Chuck."

"I'm sorry too. I should never have contemplated leaving."

"I pushed you to leave, Chuck. Some part of me didn't believe you would stay and that same part of me wanted to treat that as a final verdict. I had already decided on the sentence…" Her voice grew small as she finished.

"Well, we are starting over, together. No more thieving. No more spying. No more...despair."

She smiled. "No more. But I do need to tell you more, Chuck. More about me, about my situation."

He reached out to cup her cheek. "I know I'm chatty, Sarah, an 'articulate burglar'...er...ex-burglar, but if it is okay with you, I'd like to be a man of action this morning."

Sarah looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"

Chuck threw the blanket over his head and started a trail of kisses down her body.

"Oh! Oh! _Oh_...oh...Action is _good_..."

They dispensed with words for a while, other than their names.

ooOoo

They were in the kitchen later. Sarah had on Chuck's t-shirt and nothing else. It was just long enough to allow him to focus on the pancakes he was making, to keep from burning them. She was standing where she stood when he made the omelet, but leaning against the kitchen island. There was a looseness, an elasticity in her posture that Chuck had not seen before.

He took it to be a good sign. He noticed her smile at him as she caught his lingering glance.

She had a cup of coffee in her hand and was running her finger around the edge of the cup, almost as if she was trying to stir the steam rising from it. Her smile loitered on her face.

"Pancakes are almost ready," Chuck announced. "More coffee?"

"No, I've got plenty. It's good."

Chuck picked up his cup and took a sip. He put the cup down. He took the spatula and lifted the last pancake out of the pan. He put it atop the stack he had already made and started to pick up the plate when Sarah's hand came to rest on his. She was standing next to him but he had not heard her move.

Using her other hand, she rubbed his cheek. "Chuck, thank you for the cooking, the talking, for last night...and this morning. But are you sure about all this? I mean, you've twice pulled me from the water...Aren't you worried, afraid? Are you really sure I can start again?"

"Yes, Sarah. He reached up to take her hand, kissing it. "I know you've suffered. I know that there will still be bad days, bad nights. But, if you let me, I will keep you from facing them alone." He kissed her hand again. "I will let you keep me from facing mine alone. Partners?"

Sarah grimaced slightly. "What, Sarah?"

"Nothing, just a word with tricky associations for me."

"Did you have a partner when you were in the CIA?"

"Well," she hesitated, "I was once part of a team-a team of female spies."

Chuck furrowed his brow in disbelief. "Like _Charlie's Angels_?"

Sarah gave him a frowny smirk. "That's one pop culture reference I get. Yes, sort of like that."

"What happened?'

"One of the other three women betrayed us. The evidence pointed to one of the women I liked most. She passed a lie detector test, but…"

"So, have you seen her since?"

Sarah shook her head. "No, and I haven't talked to her. It's been years now. She's still CIA; I hear about her now and then, but no contact."

"What about the others?"

"One I was never really close to. She's still in the game I think, but I haven't even heard anything about her. The other was my best friend, or as close to one as I have ever had. Neither of us is an...easy person, and she stands out as difficult among difficult people. Her name is Carina. She's DEA, not CIA, and she's been in deep cover for a long time, almost two years."

"So, she was gone before you quit?"

Sarah nodded. "I don't know if she knows I quit."

"So, the one person you might have had to talk to was unreachable."

"More or less," Sarah said, shrugging, picking up the pancake plate and heading to the table. Chuck grabbed the syrup and butter and followed her.

"After you quit, what did you do?" Chuck was as casual as he could manage with the question, trying to make sure his tone conveyed that she could refuse to answer. She seemed to understand, and she gave him a quick, thankful look, but she offered an answer.

"I got hired by the FBI."

"No! Sarah, I have to say, talking to you is a little like watching a _Sesame Street_ episode. All letters, all the time."

She laughed, an easy, whole-bodied laugh. "I never thought about it. Just call me Big Bird."

Chuck looked at her. Then he shuddered. "Guess your youth was not wholly misspent. But, um, no, I think I will keep you and Big Bird in very different mental locations." He shuddered again.

They sat down and divided the stack of pancakes. They were both hungry, and so ate rapidly and silently for a time. Sarah made a happy, sighing sound and put down her fork. "So good. You are going to make me fat, Chuck."

He gave her a pleased nod. "I doubt it. We have pretty nearly exhausted my culinary artistry. But I like cooking for you; I want to keep doing it. And I am curious about _your_ omelets…"

"Soon, Chuck. Say, Chuck," Sarah's face changed, grew serious, and her voice dropped in volume as it rose in inflection, "I heard the truck start last night; I thought you left. What stopped you?"

Chuck got his phone from his pocket and called up Morgan's text. He handed the phone to Sarah. She read it in silence. She seemed to read it a second time. She handed the phone back to Chuck. "It's like...like a _sign_ or something." Her tone was reverent, awestruck.

Chuck leaned toward her and touched her hand, focused entirely on her. "No, Sarah. _You_ were the sign; you _are_ the sign. Morgan just forced me to see it.

"I have been so angry, sorry for myself for so long, that I gave myself permission to do what I knew was wrong...

"It was my way of getting some of my own back, the pound of flesh I demanded from the world...The future Bryce Larkin stole from me."

Sarah gasped. She shot up, jarring the table as she did, spilling coffee. "Did you say _Bryce Larkin_? Wait. Stanford. Bryce. Wait. Stanford! _Chuck_. You're Chuck!"

Chuck was reeling. He had no idea what was happening. "Huh?"

ooOoo

Sarah ran up the stairs. Chuck had no time to react. He sat, stunned and lost for a second. Then he jumped up, knocking his chair over, and bolted up the stairs.

He did not see Sarah when he entered the bedroom, but then he heard rummaging in the closet. He entered it and saw Sarah frantically moving aside clothes on hangers. She found what she was looking for-a small pile of clothes. A black, long sleeve t-shirt with a white butterfly design down the back, like a Lepidoptera spine. She pulled it down over her head. She pulled up a pair of black jeans. She turned as she fastened her jeans, and saw Chuck.

"Hey, get dressed, Chuck. Quick!"

Chuck simply obeyed, although he was still lost. He quickly put on his shirt and pants, slipped his feet into his laced but untied tennis shoes. Sarah came out of the closet and sat down beside him on the bed, putting on a pair of low, black suede boots. She took Chuck's hand and pulled him out of the bedroom, down the stairs.

Chuck pulled back when they got off the stairs. Sarah wheeled to look at him. He saw her eyes widen. "Sarah, where are we going?"

"Yes, Sarah, where are you going? And what are you doing here?" A new voice, goading and irritated, from behind Chuck.

Now, Chuck wheeled. He turned to arrive face-to-face with Bryce Larkin, who was standing in the open back door, gun out. "Chuck?" Beside Bryce was a tall blond. She had a gun out too. From behind, Chuck heard Sarah's fierce, frustrated whisper. "_Shit_."

* * *

Part Two

_Worlds Well Lost_

* * *

"Sarah, what are you doing here? Why is Chuck here? What are you doing in our house?"

Chuck wheeled again. Sarah's face was schooled blank. But he could tell she was thinking, the wheels in her head spinning like Chuck there in the living room.

"Well, Sarah?" The woman, this time. Chuck spun again. From behind him, Sarah finally spoke up.

"Shut up, Alexandra."

Bryce put his gun away and reached out and touched the woman, Alexandra, on her arm, subtly lowering her gun. She flashed Bryce a stern glance, baring her teeth, deeply annoyed. Chuck finally began to catch up. When he had cased the house, he had watched a blonde leave it, punch in the keycode.

The blonde had been wearing large, dark sunglasses and he had only used the binoculars when she was at the keypad. He had been assuming he had seen Sarah. He had not: he had seen this...Alexandra. And even though she superficially resembled Sarah, Chuck decided he did not like the look of her much.

"Who is Chuck?" Alexandra growled, speaking to Bryce and not so much as glancing at Chuck.

"Chuck is an old...buddy of mine. From college. Stanford."

"Buddy?" Chuck piped up, the question pointed at Bryce, dagger-like.

Bryce grimaced at Chuck. "Hey, Chuck, it's been a long time and it was a long story, how about we just forget all that?"

Chuck did not respond. He just looked at Bryce and at Alexandra. "So you two live here?"

"Yes, Chuck. This is my house. Alexandra lives with me."

"They're _partners,_" Sarah added, stepping to Chuck's side as she did, and taking his hand in hers.

Bryce noticed and frowned. "What are you _both _doing here?"

"It's complicated," Sarah offered, smirking.

Bryce gave her a cold, flat look. "You shouldn't be here, Sarah."

"Why not, Bryce? This place was supposed to be ours. I quit the Agency. You were supposed to quit too…"

"Wait, Bryce is a spy? No, Bryce is an accountant. I've pictured him cooking the books all these years, not running operations off-book."

"Still reading spy novels, eh, Chuck," Bryce said, condescension in his tone.

"Yeah, but I have to say, the last few days have convinced me I should switch to Westerns." Chuck turned toward Sarah. "Sarah?"

"Chuck, Bryce and I were partners. Once. No, I take that back. Twice. We were partners the way he and Forrest here are partners," Sarah explained. "I thought I loved him. But he betrayed me, or I thought he did, about four years ago. He had apparently gone rogue. It turned out he hadn't." Sarah paused and took a quick breath, obviously not used to saying so much at once.

"An evil group of spies, Fulcrum, had set him up, tried to recruit him by getting him to start as a double agent. Bryce thought a piece of technology existed that did not actually exist. When he discovered it did not, he took the fight to Fulcrum-and he came back to me. Stupidly, I took him back, believing that the lies and deception between us were explained by his 'mission'. But I found that even...partnered...with him, I just couldn't do the job anymore."

Chuck nodded listening. He heard Forrest huff disgustedly. Sarah ignored her and went on. "I told him I needed to quit, and that I wanted to find a life outside of spying, with him. He claimed he wanted that too. But he never resigned, although he promised…My life was heaping itself on me, killing me..."

"Sarah, I just couldn't…" Bryce started to explain.

"...We chose this house together and Bryce bought it. I did live here, for a brief while, working for the FBI and waiting for Bryce to come home from missions. Eventually, I found out he had taken a new partner..._taken _one." Sarah's eyes narrowed.

"No one took anyone unless it was me taking Bryce, Walker. Not my problem you can't hold onto your man." Forrest's teeth were bared again. Sarah seemed unfazed. The only change was that Chuck could feel her hand tighten on his.

Sarah went on. "I left, Chuck. But that wasn't the worst thing," Sarah flicked her eyes up to his, "that's not _why..._you know…" and her eyes flicked upstairs toward the bathroom. "The worst thing was that I realized I had never loved him, that I had never been in love with anyone-and I thought I _couldn't_ be…"

"Oh, C'mon, Sarah, you know you loved me," Bryce sounded defensive, almost hurt. Alexandra glance at him, her face betraying nervousness.

"No, I didn't, Bryce. I didn't. I believed I did; I wanted to. I told myself I did. I didn't.

"And for the last few months, after I came to understand that, I have been haunted by the fear that my past life had made love impossible for me. That I was dead inside, hollowed out, empty. Thank God, that's not true. I know it's false-now, I do."

Chuck did some quick mental arithmetic and turned a wondering smile on Sarah. She did not look at him, but her grip on his hand tightened more.

"Well, this is all _oh-so-fascinating_," Alexandra hissed, "but you need to get the hell out of _our_ house. And take your...whatever he is...with you."

"Wait, Alexandra. I want to talk to Chuck. We have things to say to each other…"

"No, Bryce, we don't. I used to think we did. I imagined having talks that all ended with me beating the shit out of you. But that was when I thought you were an accountant. And I find now that I don't need to know or to beat the shit out of you. There is no beating the shit out of _you_, Bryce. It's what you're made of."

"Chuck, listen, you don't understand the whole situation," Bryce was now pleading. Alexandra looked at him as if he were a stranger.

Chuck shook his head. "No, I don't. But I don't need to. Timing is everything, Bryce. In humor and between people. The statute of limitations on any effective explanation or apology ran out years ago, Bryce. We are not friends, probably we never were."

"Oh, C'mon, Chuck, of course we were friends."

"No, I have friends, real ones, and I know the difference now.

Bryce gaped. "You can't be talking about that Morgan clown. You've never outgrown him? Jesus, Chuck."

"No, Bryce, I haven't. But he may have outgrown me. Sarah, are we done here?'

She turned to him and took his other hand too. She smiled at him, hugely, warmly, confidently. "We are so done here, Chuck."

They turned together to leave, taking a step toward the front door. Chuck pulled up short and rotated in place. "Oh, I forgot. There're dirty towels upstairs. And you may want to change the sheets." Bryce blinked. "There's a load in the washer. I washed it twice but never got it into the dryer. I suspect the load has soured again. Sorry!"

Chuck felt Sarah tug on his hand, laughing softly. "Let's go, Mr. Clean."

ooOoo

Chuck drove them to his place. Sarah held his hand all the way there. They talked about Stanford and what had happened between Chuck and Bryce.

Sarah knew a little about it, it turned out, because it had been part of Bryce's explanation of his 'going rogue'. He had not supplied the incriminating details however, and Jill had been no part of his tale.

Chuck told her briefly about his family and about Ellie. About her raising him. Although Sarah did not supply any details, she told him she had been raised on the road, by a conman father.

ooOoo

When they arrived at the apartment, Morgan was sitting in a lawn chair in the tiny patch of green that passed for their lawn. He was shirtless but wearing dark sunglasses. He was holding a reflecting screen, evidently trying to tan. Beside him, right next to him, in fact, in a second lawn chair, was a small brunette.

She was wearing shorts and...Morgan's prized, never before opened _Pikachu _t-shirt. She was eating an ice cream cone, vanilla, and the ice cream was melting onto her fingers. Morgan seemed wholly unconcerned. She had on a trucker's hat, the bill pushed up, with _Gas and Sip _written across the front.

Morgan saw them get out and he folded up the screen and dropped it on the ground beside him. He gave Sarah a long, curious, but not unfriendly stare. "Hey, Chuck. I was about to send out the calvary…"

"No, Morg, it's cavalry…" The woman grinned at Morgan then turned her grin on Chuck and Sarah. "Hi! I'm Alex."

Chuck and Sarah smiled simultaneously and shook their heads. "Hi!" Chuck said, extending his hand. As Alex shook it, he added: "This is my...This is…"

"Hi," Sarah broke in, "I'm Chuck's _girlfriend_, Sarah."

Morgan hooted. "Wait, no way! No way! Alex is my girlfriend. She's also my manager at the Gas and Sip." Morgan leaned forward like he was sharing a secret. "That's where I work."

"That's great, Morgan."

"You know who I am?"

"Yes, Chuck has...told me about you. I've been looking forward to meeting you."

Morgan seemed touched. "That's not how it usually goes for me."

Alex swatted him. "Morgan, you're a charmer, you just don't know it."

He made a face. "I'd better be, since we are having dinner with your dad tonight."

Alex laughed, soft and musical. "Oh, Dad. He's like a Tootsie Pop, hard on the outside, but all soft and chewy on the inside."

Morgan looked from Alex to Chuck. "Hey, did you hear that, Han? Chewie! Ha! I think that's a good omen, Chuck. Of course, I know you don't believe in that sort of stuff, signs and wonders."

Chuck grinned at Morgan but settled his eyes on Sarah, making sure she knew he had. "I'm coming around, Morgan, I'm coming around. Signs and wonders, indeed."

"Alex and I were thinking about going swimming. Her friend has a house with a pool and a hot tube. Can you imagine? Do you guys want to come with us?'

"Maybe another time, Morgan," Sarah said. "Chuck and I have actually met our water quotient for the day, I think."

"Really? Did Chuck tell you he worked as a lifeguard for a couple of summers in high school? This guy here," Morgan laughed, pride in his voice, "this guy is a lifesaver."

Chuck felt Sarah's lips on his cheek. She lifted them slightly and slid them to make contact with his ear, kissing him there. "I believe it, Morgan," she said.

"So, Morg," Chuck asked, "have you started at the Gas and Sip?"

"Uh-huh. I did the other day. I like it. My manager,"-a quick glance at Alex-"says I am likely to move up quickly."

Alex nodded. "I expect big things from him."

Morgan blushed and tried to cover it with a question. "So, Sarah, Chuck didn't know about Alex; I didn't know about you, either. Evidently, Chuck and I have both been keeping secrets. When did you guys meet? How did you meet? I assume it was some kind of rom-com _meet-cute_, right?'

Sarah grew thoughtful but she smiled after a moment. "Something like that. It might have been more like the beginning of _I Dream of Jeannie. _Chuck found my bottle and he let me out…"

"Wow, Chuck, she knows _Jeannie_! She is so obviously a keeper_._ Did you know there was a _Jeannie _marathon the other day? Alex and I watched a couple of episodes, but I don't think she liked it much."

Alex's features pinched. "She calls him 'Master', Morg, I mean, _geez_…"

"I'm willing to call you 'Master' if you want, Alex," Morgan submitted.

Alex rolled her eyes. "If we're going to have to watch old sitcoms, I'd prefer _Gilligan's Island. _I like Mary Anne."

Sarah gave Chuck a look of understanding. "The Higher Mystery?" she asked in a stage whisper. He laughed and nodded.

ooOoo

Morgan and Alex were gone swimming. Chuck and Sarah were in his bed. Sarah had a computer on her lap, looking at apartment listings. Chuck was watching her and occasionally looking at the screen.

"Those places look expensive, Sarah."

She shrugged. "Let's just say that I have money, Chuck. I can afford it."

"The FBI must pay well."

Sarah shrugged again. "Something like that."

"You never told me what you did for the FBI."

"I worked in their Bank Robbery division."

Chuck laughed. "That's funny."

Sarah gave him a flat look.

"Oh. That's not funny. That's true?"

She nodded. "I didn't like it much. But it kept me busy-ish. I resigned the other day."

"Oh," Chuck said. "You really are starting over. But don't you have an apartment already?"

"I did. But the lease ran out and, given what I had decided to do...I didn't renew. I've been living in one of those extended stay motels. That's where my car is, my things. I can go get them tomorrow and bring them here if it's okay for me to stay here for a little while?"

"Absolutely. Morgan told me he was going to be staying at Alex's place for the foreseeable future."

He smiled at her. She noticed and asked why.

"I'm glad you said 'had decided'. That decision-it's _past tense_ now?"

"Past tense, Chuck. I'm looking forward to using the future tense."

He kissed her, slipping his hand under the sheet to cup one of her bare breasts. She slid down into a more reclining posture, and the kiss grew more intense.

Nonetheless, after a few wonderful moments, she pulled back. Chuck started to take his hand away, but she put her hand over his from above the sheet. 'Stay. I have plans for that hand and for all the rest of you. But, I need to ask you something first. What do you want from the future, Chuck?"

He looked away, thinking. He looked back. "I want whatever future we work out together. I'm going to stop demanding things from my future, start accepting the good things, the gifts, that come my way."

"Good. And I am going to stop laboring under the weight of my past. I have the feeling we can help each other, that we can find a future together."

"Me too."

ooOoo

Chuck had the computer open. He and Sarah had made love again. Sarah had fallen asleep afterward. Chuck had looked at her for a while, stroking her shoulder. It all seemed like a dream, and, at the same time, it felt like the only real thing that had ever happened in his life. His old tiny room looked brand new, enlarged and more brightly colored, refreshed; the whole world felt different to him.

His phone vibrated softly. Luckily, Sarah seemed undisturbed. It was Ellie.

Chuck answered softly. "Hey, Ellie!"

"Wow. Chuck? Is that you? You never answer my calls."

"I just did."

'Why are you whispering, Chuck? You sound weird, different."

Long pause. "I...I met someone, Ellie. No, not just someone. I met the one." His whisper grew softer.

"What?" Ellie was now whispering too as if she were in the room. "That's great. Wait, is she there now? Is that why we're whispering?"

"Um...yeah. It is."

"What's her name?"

"Sarah."

"How did you meet?'

"Long story. Let's just say we met. No, we didn't just...meet, Ellie. She saved me."

"What do you mean, Chuck? No, never mind. Explain it to me this weekend. Devon and I have some miles left on our card; we're coming out to see you. I want to meet Sarah too."

"Okay, I'll ask."

"Tell Ellie I will be there, Chuck."

"Oh, sorry, Sarah, it's my sister, Ellie."

"I know, Chuck, I heard."

It hit him. "You heard? Um...oh...um…"

"Don't freak out, Chuck. I like what I heard. Now finish making plans with Ellie, and then let me talk to her for a minute. I'd like to talk to the woman who raised you…"

* * *

"The world of the happy is quite different from that of the unhappy." Ludwig Wittgenstein, _Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus_

_THE END_


End file.
